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Everything was supposed to be okay today. It seemed like it would be a nice day to think. But the postman was late more than usual, and he ran out of coffee. He went into the room, abusing his tongue, typing on the screen, processing the words in his head in some new ways, tilting his nails to see if he might have hidden any ideas beneath them. Why is he more of a concept and less of a person? Why is his time more of a possibility than it is a measurement of days spent until the Earth spins around again? He doesn’t know. Is anyone helping him? Let’s see. No. No one can ever help anyone.

Dissatisfaction slides silently down his face until he unties his thoughts, still in his morning dreams. And, his untied laces intertwine with each other, almost in the same way spaghetti and meat of the raw bones he married to his mouth. They are organized to be consumed, as if by the system. And, he doesn’t stop fighting, but he doesn’t know when. The only sure thing is that he feels too much and other people’s lives on top of his own. Everything can be fuel when you can ignite your responsibility, but what can you do when your obligations are all that exists, inevitable, ridiculous, and ugly? And they do not go to the catwalks and stare at empty and full commercials with smiling faces as unemployed, but hide behind a bouquet and read notes directly from the notes of philosophers. And we are the ones who carry out their purposes, such a comedy.

So, he broke down, he wrote a gray novel about a man who got stuck on the wrong planet, let the noise out the window, and replaced the bitterness with acceptance. And he did it all before ten in the morning. People are already waking up, and they are alive in the world, and a wounded child is howling in it through people’s judgments and their indifference. He told people about it, and three of the forty listened beyond their reason, that nothing came from the search for unity and that we were withering away, so we had better combine programs and life steps to create a feeling of happiness somewhere. It will echo somewhere else, within our being, because there is nothing more than that. Everything we do is carried in us, contaminated by us, but sometimes it penetrates outside and affects the course of another life. Is that okay with you? Are you scared, or sorry, or are you terrified?

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